By Another Name
by GJFH
Summary: The Stiletto was a name to be feared, a figure blending into the shadows without any identifying features. It was a name anyone could have used, a character both despised and revered by many. Rating adjusted to be safe.
1. Entering In

A/N This is a prelude to The Labyrinth, and I didn't spend a lot of time researching, so please forgive any inconsistencies. Constructive criticism is welcome, as always. Now onto the story!

* * *

 **BY ANOTHER NAME**

Jason Whittaker has returned from hiding, now in the process of considering where to go now that his life isn't in immediate danger. As the Stiletto, his work wasn't finished.

But there were other agents, other emissaries more than willing to take over. The Stiletto was a name to be feared, a figure blending into the shadows without any identifying features. It was a name anyone could have used, a character both despised and revered by many.

The crux now, is when MI-6 called Jason requesting he step in under his alias and aid the British Intelligence in bringing down the infamous character, Mr. Grote.

* * *

Jason dialed his father, fingers drumming against his thigh. On the list of long days he had endured, this would fit on there. Somewhere. He turned to look at the graying pavement outside of the open window. The pale blue strip of the ocean in the distance, the sun giving it its shimmer. After two failed attempts, in which he received a voicemail message, Jason opted to call an employee of Whit's End, and close friend of his.

"Jason?!" Connie gasped, sitting up. A spoon clattered into the kitchen sink as Eugene whirled around. Connie sent him a look, narrowing her eyes, and stepping into the little theater, closing the door behind her to shut out background noise. "Hey, long time no see. What are you up to?"

"Um...nothing much, right now." Jason said, settling back.

"There's nothing going on? No chance of-" Whatever Connie had been meaning to say was cut off by a low beep, signalling that Jason had an incoming call.

"Hold on for a second, I'll call you back." Jason said quickly, as he hung up, his stomach souring with guilt. The number on the screen was unrecognizable, but he was used to that.

"Whittaker."

"Hello, who is this?" He asked.

"Mr. Whittaker, pleased that you finally picked up. How's the weather out there?" An unfamiliar voice said with a crisp British accent.

"It's...warm, but there's a chance of showers." Jason said tentatively.

"Very good. I have an assignment here that requires, if I dare say, your immediate and full attention."

"May I ask who is speaking, and if there's any more information you can give?"

"D. Quinn, British Intelligence and no, not at the moment. If you accept now, a dossier will be sent automatically and disposed of by tomorrow." Were the answers to Jason's' questions. He bit at his lip. His first thought, which was now proved wrong, was that the NSA wanted him to decode something. The British Intelligence were far quieter and he had only crossed paths with them when using his alias as the Stiletto.

"Right. Listen, Sir, I think I know why you called." Jason started.

"I don't believe you do fully, no." The Brit said, cutting him off. "Farthings recommended your service." Jason's breath caught in his throat. He had met Farthing several years before during a joint operation. He was the sort of agent who was seriously and blatantly opposed to violence. Two kids at home and a wife, the man had joined MI-6, or more accurately, was recruited due to the set of skills acquired serving in the British Forces. Despite the fact he was no older than the others, he was far more responsible and patient, hesitant to spring into action.

He was trustworthy, and that was hard to come by when dealing with spies. Scrubbing at his face, Jason looked to the clock on the oven, continuing to let time pass as if nothing had happened.

"It doesn't look like I get a chance to think this over." Jason said jokingly, half to himself.

"This would be your opportunity to do so." And maybe it was, the thought overwhelmed Jason. Hadn't they just put the Whisperer away? That should have been the end to his career as an agent. Was that God's way of helping him to end that chapter of his life? But Jason still wasn't over it, there wasn't any resolution or stop to the way he craved stepping back into intrigue.

Maybe, just maybe, this was God opening a door for him.

"Where do I sign up?" Asked Jason, voice cracking slightly, praying the other man wouldn't notice.

* * *

Eugene's insistence earlier that Whit use the thick black curtains in his office had its drawbacks. Around the same time every afternoon, his office had been flooded with light, streaking the floor with shafts of light, proudly showcasing the dust he thought he cleaned. The curtains were an amendment to that problem, but now, craning over his desk, the dimness of the antique lamp nearby, Whit was straining to read. Another distraction remaining.

With a sigh, he quickly lifted the phone from its cradle, quickly punching in Jason's number. An image of an older man with thinning hair, tiredly sitting alone, hoping that his son would pick up, came to his mind.

"Hello?" Jason answered, and Whit blew a sigh of relief.

"Jason, it's me. What's going on?"

"That's a good question. Hold on?" It was hard to make out his voice, other voices raised up in as if Jason were in the midst of a crowd. The noise faded after a minute into the background, a quiet humming that spoke of an intercom somewhere. "Dad, I can't come back to Odyssey right now."

"Why not? I thought you said the agency had officially closed their file." Whit said, disbelief coloring his voice.

"Yeah, they did, I just...there's another loose end I gotta tie up from a while ago."

"Loose end?"

"I- really can't talk about it." Spoke Jason. Turning, he swept a hand through his hair, acutely aware that his face felt hot, flushed. Briefly, neither one spoke. In the small expanse of space he had, Jason moved further from the other people waiting for their flights. Not that he thought any were intently listening in, but he desperately wanted to avoid making eye contact.

"You can't?" Whit asked.

"I wish that I could." His son cleared his throat. "This is something I started almost ten years ago, and I have to be in the Philippians first thing tomorrow. No one can know." There was enough stress discernible in Jason's voice that Whit felt his stomach sour.

"Jason. I seriously hope you know what you're getting into, that you're thinking about the implications of whatever you're about to do."

"I am."

"Really? I find that hard to believe, and I want to." Whit said. In truth, he was disappointed first that Jason felt the need to run again into a foreign country instead of taking time to return to a semblance of normalcy. He didn't tend to think too far ahead, or about God's sovereignty. Knowing his son, Jason really needed to be reminded of the latter. "You know, God knows that you won't get it all right, no much how hard you try. What you need to do is keep your eyes on Him."

"Yeah, I know." Jason sighed. "Can you tell Connie that I'm sorry that I had to hang up on her? Everything's fine, but I don't want her to worry."

"Of course." Though Whit may not have been happy to hear Jason was working with an agency again, he realized that if Jason thought Connie might be worried, there was a good chance she would be. Not that he blamed her. "When should I expect to hear from you again?" He asked, his voice heavy.

"I don't know. It could be months." Or...longer, he surmised, not willing to put the thought into words. A voice crackled on in the lobby, announcing the flight. A flurry of movement in his peripheral. "That's my cue." Jason said, stooping to lift up his duffel.

He was off the plane first. A tourist whose face was covered beneath the brim of his baseball cap, tattered at its edges. Eyes shadowed with exhaustion, a juxtaposition of grays and blues were hidden under darkened sunglasses. It was early enough in the morning they were still pressed together at the edges with sleep. Stepping quickly behind a man pushing a cart laden with vegetables, Jason fell into the contained chaos on the street.

It was with some regret that Jason reached a bridge in the heart of Manila. There was a ragged form huddling by the discolored concrete wall, a thin blanket draped over his legs. The man turned, and he reached a hand up. His grip strong, and firm.

"Israel."

"Farthing." Jason replied in a low voice. Unable to hide his relief, he helped the agent to his feet. "Thank God you got my message."

"Well of course. Keep it down, will ya?" Carefully sliding the blanket off, and stepping closer, Farthing kicked the mess of glass bottles in his way aside. "Were you followed?" Jason shook his head, and the other man patted his shoulder. In the distance, the buildings blurred together in a fog induced haze. Underneath the rumbling bridge, the stench of alcohol and decay was strong, and it clung onto Ashton Farthing, to fit the persona.

A sudden gunshot drove the both of them forward. "I thought you said you weren't followed?"

"I'm pretty sure they're just late to the party." Jason said. His mind was rapidly filling with possibilities. They reached the outer edge, the noise of the city almost overwhelming. Breathing heavily, Jason was aware that Farthing may have said something else. It didn't seem to matter then. He'd slip beneath the surface of everything Manila had to offer. Undercover again, lingering in the darkness, making deals with people who should have been imprisoned long ago. Bringing down Grote's crime ring was the end goal. If this continued, Jason knew he needed to take on the name Stiletto again. To be known by another name.

The debris stirred up near him, enemy's rounds leaving holes in a makeshift cardboard wall. Farthing startled, drawing his gun. To move forward, they'd find themselves in the inner maze of alleys and stairwells where the city began to press in onto itself. A labyrinth.


	2. No Body

Warnings ahead for both violence and blood.

* * *

"Jason.-" Farthing's mouth opened in a croak. Dropping to his knees, Jason's hands moved, almost on their own accord, to the gaping wound that stemmed blood. He had been hit center left, too close to his heart, too close.

Grote was already gone, his waxed shoes tapping against the pavement as soon as he had fired. Not that Jason could care about that now. _There was enough blood that Farthing might be_ \- with severity, Jason cut off that thought, ripping a piece of lining from his jacket, and pressing it firmly against the bullet hole. Farthing gasped, soundlessly.

"I'm so sorry."

"Lost 'im again." Farthing got out.

"Doesn't matter." Said Jason, tightening his hold. "Keep your eyes open. Farthing. Eyes open." Bleary green met his own. The bullet had gone through just under his collar bone, possibly hitting a vessel. Help had been radioed in, but who knew how long it'd be? " Keep talking. Please." With a grunt of pain, Farthing cleared his throat, his shaky hand reached out, clawing for purchase.

"Coul'dve done things so much-" He said, coughing heavily. "Faster, they're gonna n-need to know, know I did try, at least." Dry, Jason's throat seemed to be tightening, air itself constricted on his end too.

"'C'mon Farthing. Of course you did. Put in a-" He bit off the front end of the expression, opting for a cleaner take, "lot more effort than anyone else. You're the backbone of this mission. You're the one keeping us order, I think you've actually made a made a few of the guys learn some critical thinking." Jason gave a faint smile, hoped his fear wasn't obvious. Again, Farthing's eyes had slipped close, his breathing, softer. He gave a groan.

"Mm."

"Myself included. Farthing." Spoke Jason.

"'M'lstening. Jason." With a start, the dying man forced his gaze upwards. Cool air swept over them both. Sirens grew louder, shrill noise. The ground - stained asphalt was growing wetter by the second. Jason hung his head. "Thank you, Jason."

"For what?" He asked. Bewildered.

"C-could always tell," Farthing choked on a breath, his face flush with the effort of speaking, let alone breathing, "you were after s-some, something good. "Wanted right thing."

Then he was gone.

* * *

"I'll see if I can get you something to change into." The young agent left in a hurry, the door swinging out behind him. Jason flicked the faucet on, hesitating still, he rolled his sleeves further up before submerging his hands. Deep, hardened blood tinted the water pink. He looked away, breathing through his nose.

Billing's face was split into hard lines, betraying his age, and the toll that the work had. Jason couldn't be sure where he was now, but he'd cross that bridge when it came to it. Scrubbing to get clean, he tried not to think about the cooling body a few rooms over, he tried not think about the red marring his wrists and forearms. How could Farthing know Jason's intentions when Jason wasn't sure of his own integrity?

* * *

He stayed as long as he could. Shaking hands, and giving condolences, which felt terribly insufficient. There was clean-up to be done. He wanted to ensure Chelsea Farthing and her two kids wouldn't be lost in the cracks. One mercy was; Farthing maintained a tight cover throughout their chase, and it was probable that Grote's men knew nothing of Chelsea or their two sons. The funeral was over, but he couldn't just get up and leave.

The sun was just beginning to dip beneath the clouds, blues split across the sky, the coffin already lowered into the earth.

"Mrs. Farthing." He started. "If there is anything I can do," He tried to inject as much genuineness in his voice as he could. What else was there to say? Her own blue eyes looked dull.

"I don't know what that'd be."

"Anything."

He barely knew Farthing's family. Still, he moved out that night, leaving his number in Chelsea's pale hand. Rather than head directly out to D.C, he rented a hotel room, leaning out over the balcony'rusted railing. Hazy, orange light, hovered over the blackening sky, noises, relentless. It seemed to him a different city altogether. One less body walking through the crowd, one less heart beating in the streets.

There had been a little silver cross in Farthing's wall. That, he remembered. Jason's hand clasped his water glass tightly, swallowing the cool liquid. A sudden vibration against his pant leg startled him, signalling he had an incoming phone call.

"Why aren't you on the flight with the rest of Interpol?" Quinn asked.

"I had other things to take care of." Said Jason. He knew it was futile but desperately prayed they'd leave it at _that_.

"Which other things? Time is of the essence. We can't have the stiletto out of our sight," The suit sighed deeply, about to say something else. Sniffing in his irritation. "The service requires you be debriefed, after such an experience."

"And you'll get one. Mr. Quinn, sir, a few days wait doesn't make any difference. Does it?" Asked Jason, his throat tight. The urge to raise his voice was being forced backwards.

"I understand where you're coming from - however, this is how the MI-6 performs. As of right now,"

"Performs? Great word choice." He said sarcastically. "I'm taking a break from whatever that means. And I'm a liaison, if you'll remember. Your board can wait." He drained the last of the water.

A light buzzing filled the space where neither spoke. _I don't need you_. Jason thought bitterly.

"Very well, then."

* * *

Jason spent the next several months in near constant travel. Grote, remaining a priority in his eyes. As the Stiletto, he worked behind the scenes, trying to ensure the authorities were kept in the loop. As Agent Whittaker, he handled the bulk of the investigation. Grote was pooling millions of dollars into antique artifacts, but for what? Sleep became more of a frowned-upon necessity than anything. He found himself slipping back into bad habits.

Anti-terrorism had been the thing he wanted to do, well, as long as he could remember. This was what he wanted. The last place on his list, London, England.

At times, Jason would catch his own gaze in a mirror. Well. _Someone needs a shave_ , or alternatively, _someone's been under some stress,_ he wryly thought to himself. It was enough to almost make him laugh.

Chill, winter air rushed to meet him as he stepped outside of his car one December morning during the chase. There was a old Church to his right, its steep roof ladened with snow. Suddenly, he recalled an age-old quote by a saint. A line that had been sung in a church concert his parents had taken him to.

Christ has no body now but yours.

What did that mean? Was Christ asking Jason to do this all for Him? It seemed overwhelming at the time, standing by a fellow agent, and out in freezing temperatures. Burning candlelight, warm hands, and even Farthing's dying breaths were distant memories. Not distant enough. _He couldn't speak with God now, considering all the time he already hadn't._

Apprehending Grote was still his duty, wasn't it?

It was he had been called to do.

* * *

Farthing's widow moved to D.C. within the year, her two sons in tow. One of the Federal agents had worked with Farthing at one point, and recommended she relocate.

Purchasing a small suburban home, Chelsea Farthing settled down. There was a church down the street she planned on raising her two sons in. Farthing's quiet, but determined faith acted in that. He was the softest man she knew, and much to people's surprise, one of the strongest. It was crucial her boys share in that.

An agent by the name of Robert Mitchell lived minutes away.

* * *

A/N My ideas for this story have mostly tapered off, so suggestions are definitely welcome. Please remember that I usually do incorporate some of my own headcanons, taking liberty with what we know.

As for the Saint's quote, it's from Teresa of Avila, and I've been thinking about it a lot lately. I definitely don't think we should take it 100% literally. Christ is still at work here, and He doesn't depend on us. He isn't limited in how He can work. But I think He does use us, and while filled with the Holy Spirit, we can do His work.

Anyways, I love writing, event though finding the time for fics is difficult sometimes, and I love getting any sort of feedback. ^_^ Until next time.


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